Me, failing her. Me, making another bad call. Me, destroying her the way I'd destroyed Kevin.
"This was a mistake," I said.
She flinched like I'd hit her. "What?"
"This. Us. Last night." I gestured between us, my hand shaking. "It shouldn't have happened."
"Kai, don't do this."
"I want you to leave when your house-sitting is done.” The lie hurt more than the truth would have. “Go back to your life. Finish law school. Find someone who isn't—" I broke off, jaw clenching. "Find someone who isn't broken."
"I don't want someone else." Her voice cracked. "I want you."
"You don't know what you want. You're twenty-three years old. You just lost your virginity yesterday." The words were cruel, and I hated myself for saying them, but I couldn't stop. "You think this is love? You think this is real? It's hormones, Emory. It's the excitement of something new. Give it a month, and you'll forget I ever existed."
Tears spilled down her cheeks, but her voice was steady when she spoke. "You don't believe that."
"I do."
"You're lying. You're pushing me away because you're scared, and I understand that, I do. But don't you dare stand there and tell me what we have isn't real."
"What we have?" I laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. "We've known each other for a week. A week, Emory. That's not a relationship. That's a vacation fling."
"Stop it."
"You're a kid playing house." The words felt like glass in my throat, cutting me as they came out. "Go home. Go back to your roommates and your textbooks and your plans. Forget about this place. Forget about me."
I knew exactly how much damage those words would do. Each one felt like a deliberate wound, something I was carving into both of us with shaking hands. I hated myself for saying them, for choosing cruelty because it was faster than honesty, because it would push her away before she could see how badly I wanted her to stay.
She stared at me, tears streaming down her face, and I saw the moment her heart broke. I watched it happen in real time—the light in her eyes dimming, the hope draining from her expression.
I'd done that. I'd broken her.
Just like I knew I would.
"Fine," she whispered. The finality in her voice undid me more than shouting ever could have. "If that's what you want."
She walked past me without another word. I heard her gathering her clothes from the bedroom, heard the door to the bathroom close, heard the water run briefly. Five minutes later, she was dressed and standing at the front door.
"For the record," she said, her voice thick with tears, "you're wrong. About all of it. What happened to Kevin was a tragedy, not a verdict on your worth. And what happened between us was real. But if you're too scared to see that, then maybe you're right. Maybe I should go."
She opened the door and walked out.
I watched her cross the yard to Eunice's cabin, her shoulders straight, her head high even as tears streamed down her face. She didn't look back.
The door closed behind her, and I was alone.
Silence.
The same silence I'd craved for three years. The same silence I'd wrapped around myself like armor, keeping everyone out, keeping myself safe.
It had never felt like this before. Cold. Suffocating. Wrong.
I stood at the window and watched her cabin, half hoping she'd come back out. Half hoping she'd storm over here and yell at me, hit me, make me take it back.
She didn't.
The silence pressed in, and I realized the truth I'd been running from all along.
